


The Parts We Play

by TinkerBella



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinkerBella/pseuds/TinkerBella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a whump D'Artagnan and add a bit of Porthos whump fic.  Lots of H/C.  Lots of angst.  Basically D'Artagnan and Porthos have to play their parts to save the King and things don't go as planned and whump and angst and H/C ensue.  And lots and lots of brotherhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Parts We Play

Athos stood in the doorway, watching as Aramis fussed over D'Artagnan's attire. Rather than his usual outfit, the boy was dressed in tight-fitted breeches tucked into black leather boots that reached just above his knees. His shirt was white and cut low and over it he wore a black vest, also cut low, that revealed a good portion of his chest. He carried no weapons and it was obvious to Athos that he was uncomfortable. All the more so when Aramis started smoothing his hair.

"Enough!" D'Artagnan hissed. "I look ridiculous enough!"

"You look like the pretty pet you are supposed to be," Porthos rumbled in response. He was dressed all in black, from head to toe. He carried a different, more ornate sword in his belt and a dagger at his back and one in each boot. A red sash was wrapped around his waist as the only splash of color, and a black scarf was tied on his head. He wore more jewelry than usual as well, all things that were scavenged by Athos or Treville. Neither he nor D'Artagnan could risk being recognized for the Musketeers they were.

Athos pushed off the door frame, moving to stand before his friends. "Are you sure this will work?" He trusted them both, but he worried. Especially for D'Artagnan. The boy would be entering a dangerous situation with no weapons on him. 

Porthos nodded. "It will work." 

"I can do this," D'Artagnan interjected, locking eyes with Athos. "Trust me."

"I do trust you," Athos assured him. "I just don't like that Aramis and I cannot be close by. Plus, we all know that nothing ever goes as planned. Too many variables in the mix."

Aramis clapped Athos on the shoulder. He understood the man's doubts, for they mirrored his own, but he also knew that the plan must be carried out. The King's life was at stake.

Treville had learned that an assassination attempt was to be made on the King's life when he and the Queen attended their annual Harvest festival Gala. Before the gala, the royal couple and their guests paraded through the streets of Paris, escorted by the Red Guard and the Musketeers, to show off their finery and to hand out baskets of bread. The Queens' doing as all knew.

The information had been overheard in a tavern by the sea port. Porthos had confessed to knowing a man named Faveau, who was a sea man and the honorary ruler of Merry town, as he called it. A makeshift town in the midst of the sea port. Whatever went on in Merry Town, Faveau knew about it and usually was involved in some way.

D'Artagnan had been the one to ask, "Are you and Faveau friends?"

"I'm not sure there's a name for what we are," Porthos had replied, laughing. He pointed to the scar across his left eye. "Faveau gave this to me after I stopped him from killing an innocent man. It happened ten years ago. We haven't seen each other since."

"Are you sure he's going to help you?" D'Artagnan had queried. 

Porthos had nodded, his eyes roving over D'Artagnan. "For a price. You aren't going to like it, but I know I can get the information we need." 

He had then explained how Faveau had a weakness for beautiful boys, at which point D'Artagnan argued he was neither beautiful nor a boy, but in the end they had all agreed that Porthos' plan to meet up with Faveau and use D'Artagnan as a bargaining chip to get the information, was sound. It was also their best chance to get the information they needed quickly, for the festival gala was in two days. 

So Aramis reminded Athos of the fact that they had to move fast. "Time is of the essence, my friend. And we will be watching their backs, even if it's at a distance."

"You know I won't let anything happen to D'Artagnan," Porthos stated, moving to face Athos. "I'll protect him with my life."

"I don't need protecting!" D'Artagnan protested. "I can't take care of myself!" He didn't even bother to hide the fact that he was insulted by their presumption that he needed to be looked after like a child.

Porthos chuckled, turning to pat D'Artagnan on the cheek and laughing more when his hand was smacked away. "Relax whelp. By the same token I know that you'll protect me with your life."

Athos was quick to interject, "Just let it not come to that for either of you." Moving to D'Artagnan, he placed his hands on the boy's shoulders, drawing his attention. "Do what Porthos tells you, he's familiar with Faveau and Merry Town. Follow his lead at all times."

"I will," D'Artagnan promised, for he could see how worried Athos was and he wanted to alleviate his fears. "I do understand how dangerous this is, but I also know we have to this. The safety of the King and Queen is our priority as Musketeers."

"Well put," Aramis applauded, nudging Athos aside so he could give D'Artagnan the once over again. "You certainly look the part," he conceded, which worried him more than a little. 

Porthos studied D'Artagnan in turn. "Faveau will favor you, of that I have no doubt. It won't be easy for you, D'Artagnan, but you must remain submissive at all times. Understand?"

D'Artagnan was a bit worried about being able to play his part in that respect, but he nodded. "I understand." He would not risk Porthos' life, so he would do as he was told. He just hoped they could get in, get the information, and get out as soon as possible. "When do we leave?"

 

"Now." Porthos checked his weapons, checked D'Artagnan over one last time, then guided him out the door.

 

Athos and Aramis watched them go, both filled with trepidation, but both keeping it to themselves. It did no good to invite trouble, for trouble seemed to find them all on its own.

 

* * *

 

Faveau was a man who equaled Porthos in height and stature, but his hair was white-blond, his eyes pale blue and his skin more ruddy than dark. His hair was pulled off his face into a pony tail and he wore a brown, sleeve-less jerkin that bared his thick arms. He sat in the back of the crude tavern, sitting in the corner in a big chair, holding court just as Porthos had predicted to D'Artagnan. Two armed men stood guard on either side, and beside him were two pretty wenches. Everyone was drinking and laughing and, at present, watching a fist fight between two brawny men.

 

Porthos guided D'Artagnan around them, moving directly into Faveau's line of sight. They would not introduce themselves, rather they would let themselves be seen and wait for Faveau to take the bait. Keeping a hand on D'Artagnan's arm, Porthos leaned in to whisper, "No matter what happens, stay silent and obedient. You hear me?" He spoke harshly for he wanted D'Artagnan to understand the danger they were in. They had entered the viper's nest and they both had to play their parts to perfection for this to work and for the both of them to survive. "And...I may have to be a bit rough with you, physically, just know I'm playing the part. I would never hurt you."

 

"I know," D'Artagnan whispered back. "I won't break." He would have spoken more reassurances, but just then Faveau stood up and shouted his friend's name.

 

"PORTHOS!" Faveau boomed. "What a sight for sore eyes. I thought you were dead!" As he spoke he waved them forward.

 

For his part, Porthos pretended to be surprised. "I thought the same of you," he countered, voice rough but a smile on his face as he stepped forward, pulling D'Artagnan along with him.

 

Faveau stood up, pulling a dagger from his belt and hurling it into the back of one of the brawlers, bringing the fight to an abrupt end. He surged forward, stepping over the body, to meet Porthos half way. They clasped hands about each other's wrists, Faveau's free hand pounding Porthos on the back. "So what brings you here?" he queried.

 

"Business," Porthos replied with a shrug. "Just sold a cargo and made enough to celebrate. Been thinking about settling back here again."

 

"We should catch up over wine," Faveau began, only to fall silent when he caught sight of D'Artagnan. He got his voice back quick enough to inquire, "Who is this lovely boy?"

 

Porthos replied with the name they had come up with for the ruse. "This is Etienne. He's a right beauty, isn't he?" As he spoke he pulled D'Artagnan to his side and ruffled his hair. "I acquired him about two years ago and I've nearly got him trained the way I want. He was a bit wild at first."

 

Faveau chuckled. "Beat it out of him, did you? Sometimes you have to break them before they'll bend properly."

 

"When necessary," Porthos allowed, hiding his disgust at Faveau's words. But he had to keep up appearances, so he shoved D'Artagnan from him. "Fetch us some wine, boy! Hurry!" When D'Artagnan paused to catch his balance, Porthos put a foot on his backside and shoved him to the floor. "Fetch it now or you'll be punished!"

 

It was on the tip of D'Artagnan's tongue to tell him to get it himself, but he quickly reminded himself that he had a role to play. So he scrambled to his feet and headed for the Innkeeper, where he was handed two bottles of wine without asking for them. Obviously Faveau owned the Tavern so the wine belonged to him. D'Artagnan headed back to Porthos, only to find him and Faveau now seated at the table.

 

For the next few hours D'Artagnan poured wine and endured Faveau's comments and groping while he and Porthos talked and gambled, only for Faveau to finally become drunk enough for Porthos to ask him about money making oppurtunities.

 

"I'm about to make a fortune," Faveau boasted. "Riches beyond any man's wildest dreams. Riches to rival the King's wealth."

 

"Care to share those riches?" Porthos prompted, feeling like they were finally getting somewhere. 

 

Faveau rose to his feet, surprisingly steady given all the wine he had imbibed. "I have rooms that are more private, where we can talk." 

 

Porthos stood as well, grabbing D'Artagnan by the arm and pulling him along as he followed Faveau out the back of the tavern and into another building connected by an alleyway. They climbed a set of stairs to set of rooms at the top. 

 

"We can talk here without being overheard," Faveau announced, leading them into his bedroom. A huge bed, drapped with silk, stood against the far wall. Against the side wall were two, over-stuffed chairs and he motioned Porthos to sit there, taking up the other chair.

 

"Nice place," Porthos commented as he made himself comfortable. He pushed D'Artagnan to the floor by his feet, pleased when the boy obeyed without hesitation. To this point the young Musketeer had played his part perfectly and all had gone smoothly. Porthos hoped they could get the information soon and head back to the others with viable news, without mishap.

 

Faveau looked about his rooms and smiled. "I have done well for myself," he allowed.

 

Porthos couldn't deny it. "So tell me more about this fortune you're about to make, and how I can get a share."

 

"I've been hired to find an assassin willing to kill the King," Faveau announced, even as he procured a bottle of wine from beneath his chair and took a swig.

 

"Kill the King..." Porthos echoed, acting surprised, although this was the news they had been hoping for. If Faveau gave up the name of the assassin, perhaps they could shut down the attempt and protect the King in one fell swoop. 

 

Handing over the bottle of wine, Faveau studied Porthos face. "Don't tell me you have any love for the King."

 

Porthos accepted the bottle and took a long swig before replying, "He's done nothing for me or my kind! I have no love for him."

 

"Perhaps I could be persuaded to let you have the honor of ending his life," Faveau drawled.

 

"You don't have an assassin yet?" Porthos countered, not hiding his genuine surprise.

 

Faveau shrugged. "There was someone I had in mind, but I haven't asked them yet. So perhaps you could convince me to let you be the one. The person who hired me will pay you a fortune only slightly smaller than I am to receive."

 

Porthos felt D'Artagnan stiffen beside him, both of them realizing the importance of this moment and that it had to be played perfectly. "What would convince you to give me the job?" Porthos asked bluntly. "I wouldn't say no to either the fortune, nor the honor to end the King's worthless life." It wasn't easy badmouthing King Louis, but Porthos knew he had to keep in character to pull this off. 

 

"Give me your boy," Faveau countered, without hesitation, his eyes locked on D'Artagnan. "I want Etienne."

 

Even though D'Artagnan had been expecting this moment, he felt a chill ripple through him. Porthos had to play this right, and he had to play along no matter what, so they could get the information they needed. Strong fingers clamped on D'Artagnan's shoulders, startling him. He looked up to find Porthos staring back at him. The big Musketeer did nothing more than nod, imperceptibly, but D'Artagnan felt himself relax. He knew that, whatever happened next, Porthos would have his back.

 

"Etienne is special to me," Porthos replied, ruffling D'Artagnan's hair possessively. "I would miss him."

 

"With the riches you'll make, you can buy several pretty boys to take his place," Faveau replied, his eyes never leaving D'Artagnan.

 

Which creeped D'Artagnan out more than a little and he found himself leaning back into Porthos' legs.

 

Porthos chuckled and shook a finger at Faveau. "Etienne cannot be replaced," he stated. "But I would be a fool to pass over a fortune. Perhaps we could reach a bargain. Tell me when and where, and more about your benefactor." For the person who was willing to pay a fortune for the death of the King, was the person they were looking for. The person they needed to catch.

 

"Two days, at the Harvest festival, during the parade." Faveau offered the information without hesitation. "My benefactor is a Spaniard who has some connection to the King and he wants to witness the event. The moment the King is dead, we get our money." Faveau's eyes were still locked on D'Artagnan as he queried, "So, Porthos...do we have a deal?"

 

"We do," Porthos agreed, rising from his chair to clasp hands with Faveau. He hadn't expected things to go this smoothly, but he was more than happy to accept this good fortune.

 

Faveau was smiling as he shook hands with Porthos. "Pleasure doing business with you," he stated, even as he turned and moved to step towards D'Artagnan. "So Etienne is mine now."

 

Porthos stopped him with a hand on his arm. "After the job is done. For the next two days, he still belongs to me." Which was a bold faced lie, for as soon as the Spanish Benefactor showed up, they would stop him and throw him and Faveau in the Chatelet to await sentencing. D'Artagnan would have to play the part of Etienne one more time, but he would never belong to Faveau.

 

"Two days," Faveau allowed, although it was clear he wasn't happy with having to wait. "Shall we continue our celebration?"

 

"As soon as I relieve myself," Porthos allowed, stepping over to D'Artagnan and giving him a pat on the shoulder to let him know he would be right back. 

 

D'Artagnan gave an imperceptible nod, remaining seated on the floor by Porthos' empty chair. He knew they'd have to remain for a bit to keep Faveau from becoming suspicious, but soon they would be on their way to meet up with Athos and Aramis and relay their news. He felt relieved knowing that in two days they would capture the man who wanted the King dead. He could continue with this charade for a few more days, to save the King.

 

Moving silently, for a man so big, Faveau was suddenly beside D'Artagnan, thick fingers combing through the Gascon's dark hair. "Such a pretty pretty boy," he slurred, his eyes glinting with lust. "I can't wait to own you. The things I'm going to do to you." His fingertips slid over D'Artagnan's cheek, as he licked his own lips.

 

"I belong to Porthos still," D'Artagnan whispered, resisting the urge to grab Faveau's fingers and break them. The man's touch made him shudder, but he had to keep in character. He had to play the role of Etienne, the slave, not D'Artagnan, the Musketeer. 

 

"But you will be mine in two days," Faveau drawled. "And since I'm going to make Porthos rich beyond his dreams, I believe that gives me the right to sample the goods." With that he hauled D'Artagnan to his feet, dragging him over to the bed and heaving him onto it in the blink of the eye.

 

D'Artagnan felt dizzy as he bounced on the bed. Faveau had moved with such speed and strength that he felt disoriented, until the man's heavy body pressed down upon him, making it hard to breathe. D'Artagnan fought the urge to struggle, until he felt thin, dry lips pressed against his own. At that D'Artagnan turned his head until fingers curled in his hair, holding him still, allowing Faveau to claim his lips again. He felt disgust as Faveau plunged his slick tongue into D'Artagnan's mouth, almost choking him. Instinct made him struggle against the kiss, and the free hand that was attempting to get into his pants. He couldn't give up his true identity, but at the same time he wasn't about to let Faveau have his way with him.

 

As if on cue, Porthos entered the room, bellowing curses as took in the sight of Faveau ravishing D'Artagnan. Striding over to the bed he hauled Faveau off the boy, hauling back and slugging him hard. While Faveau stumbled and fell into the wall, Porthos grabbed D'Artagnan off the bed and shoved him into the corner. 

 

Disoriented from being manhandled, D'Artagnan found himself hitting the wall hard, pain flaring in both his head and his shoulder, before he felt his knees buckle and he slid slowly down to the floor. Pressing a hand to his aching head, D'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to cower there, as Etienne would, as he tried to regain his equilibrium. The sound of flesh meeting flesh and grunts of pain made him open his eyes to the fight before him. It went against the grain to do nothing but watch the fight, but D'Artagnan knew he couldn't interfere. He and Porthos had to keep up their charade until the Spaniard was caught and the King was safe. 

 

However Porthos was so filled with anger that he forgot the mission in this moment. That Faveau had come close to molesting D'Artagnan set his blood to boiling. The moment Faveau had regained his balance, Porthos had charged him and they exchanged blow after mighty blow until Porthos got the upper hand and was more than willing to pummel Faveau into a pulp.

 

As much as D'Artagnan was tempted to let Porthos take Faveau down, he knew he could not allow that to happen. Without Faveau they had no way to get to the Spaniard who wanted the King dead. The mission had to come first, but D'Artagnan could see that Porthos was out of control and the only way he could think to stop him was rise to his feet and throw himself between the brawlers, as if Etienne were trying to protect his master. Only to realize his mistake instantly, when Faveau backhanded him with a heavy arm, which sent D'Artagnan flying backwards to crash into a table where he landed in a crumpled heap. The breath left his lungs and D'Artagnan lay gasping, pain rippling through his body. So not good.

 

However, the crash did make both Porthos and Faveau freeze, distracted from their fight as they stared at D'Artagnan in concern.

 

Porthos came to his senses, realizing what he had almost done, understanding why D'Artagnan had tried to stop him. He moved to the boy, anger at Faveau warring with his own guilt, when he saw the blood at D'Artagnan's temple. "Etienne," he whispered, as he patted one pale cheek. "Can you hear me?" Staying in character was hard, but Porthos managed. Barely.

 

D'Artagnan managed to nod, even though it made his head ache, wanting to reassure his friend. He let Porthos pull him to his feet and was grateful for the strong arm around his waist for he felt a bit dizzy.

 

"Is he going to be all right?" Faveau asked, looking worried as he hovered close by. 

 

"No thanks to you!" Porthos snarled. "You had no right to touch him! He still belongs to me!"

 

Faveau was angry, but tempered it, obviously unwilling to lose the boy. "Do we still have a deal, Porthos? He is a very pretty boy, but is he worth giving up a fortune for?"

 

Porthos glowered, but pretended to be giving the deal some thought. He could feel D'Artagnan shifting beside him, trying to steady himself, but he could also feel the slim body trembling and he feared the boy was hurt more than he let on, and it was his fault if he was injured. Still, Porthos knew he had to focus on the mission. "You have a deal. We meet in two days. Where and what time?"

 

"The bell tower at the south end of Merry Town," Faveau replied. "Both of you come, just as the parade begins. Our benefactor will be there. You kill the King, our Benefactor pays us, I take Etienne and life is good for us all."

 

"We'll be there," Porthos allowed, before turning and guiding D'Artagnan out the door. They both remained silent as they left the tavern, not speaking as they reached their horses, both knowing that there were eyes and ears that would no doubt be willing to report back to Faveau. 

 

Keeping silent until they were away from the town was difficult for Porthos. He wanted to make sure D'Artagnan was all right.

 

Surprisingly, it was the boy who spoke up first, as if reading Porthos' mind. "I'm fine, Porthos. Stop worrying so loudly, it's making my head hurt." It was said light-heartedly, with the intent to relieve the other man's guilt.

 

Porthos, however, was not ready to be let off the hook. "I shouldn't have left you alone with him."

 

"I'm fine and we did what we set out to do," D'Artagnan reminded him. And not for anything was he going to let Porthos know that his head and ribs ached abominably, nor that he still felt revolted by the imprint of Faveau's repulsive touch. Instead he spurred his mount into a gallop. "Come on!" he called over his shoulder. "The others will be waiting!"

 

It was nightfall when they reached the Inn, set off the beaten track, where Aramis and Athos were waiting. Porthos and D'Artagnan had covered themselves in dark cloaks, hiding their clothing, and Porthos paid for a room as D'Artagnan saw their horses tended too. 

 

Pressing careful fingers to his bruised temple, D'Artagnan climbed the stairs of the Inn and moved to the end of the hallway to the last room there. The Inn Keeper had informed him which room Porthos had paid for. He wasn't surprised to see Athos and Aramis already sitting at the table in the corner.

 

The moment D'Artagnan closed the door behind him, Aramis was on him, a strong hand gripping his arm and leading him over to the bed. 

 

"Porthos told me you got hurt," Aramis said, fingers already smoothing D'Artagnan's dark hair back to look at the cut and bruise on his temple. "Are you feeling dizzy or nauseous?"

 

"I'm fine, just a slight headache," D'Artagnan was quick to assure him. He tried to glare at Porthos as he spoke, for he had asked the man not to mention what had happened with Faveau, but apparently Porthos had told them everything.

 

Athos was the next to speak up. "Did Faveau molest you?"

 

D'Artagnan sighed. Indeed, Porthos had told them everything, although apparently he hadn't believed D'Artagnan when he'd insisted that Faveau hadn't touched him. Not to that extent, anyway. Turning to lock eyes with Athos, D'Artagnan replied, "Porthos returned before anything happened, I promise. Other than feeling a bit sore from flying into the wall and crashing into a table, I'm perfectly fine." D'Artagnan saw no reason to state anything other than the truth, in the hope that his friends would stop fussing over him so they could focus on the mission and their next step.

 

"I shouldn't have left him alone," Porthos interjected, looking dejected as he paced from one corner of the room to the other.

 

"Porthos, I'm fine!" D'Artagnan exclaimed, moving to rise and confront his friend, only to hiss in pain as his body protested. He wasn't hurt badly, but he was stiff from riding and he was bruised enough to make itself felt.

 

Aramis was already pushing D'Artagnan to lie back on the bed so he could further examine him, even as Athos moved to intercept Porthos, making the big man sit in a nearby chair.

 

D'Artagnan let Aramis do his thing, knowing he would find some bruises but nothing broken and nothing serious. "I'm sore but fine, just like I said," he stated, once Aramis allowed him to sit up again. "We need to discuss what happens next. I'm assuming Porthos also mentioned that the assassination attempt is to take place in two days and that a mysterious Spaniard is the benefactor?"

 

"He did," Athos confirmed. "And you're right, D'Artagnan. We must focus our attention on our mission. We can discuss it over a meal, then I believe we all could use a good night's sleep." 

 

"I'll get the food," Porthos offered, needing to be doing something helpful, because he felt so helpless after having failed to keep D'Artagnan safe. He didn't wait for any protests, he simply strode out of the room.

 

Aramis watched him go and heaved a sigh. "He feels guilty."

 

D'Artagnan knew that all too well. "He shouldn't, and I tried to tell him that. We did what needed to be done and playing our parts worked. Faveau offered Porthos the job and in two days we'll catch the Spaniard and the King will be safe."

 

"In a perfect world that would be the plan and the outcome," Athos drawled.

 

"Ahhh, the innocence and faith of youth," Aramis sing-songed, as he smiled broadly at D'Artagnan. 

 

Who scowled back at him. "We'll make it happen," he insisted. "The King's life is at stake."

 

Athos moved to sit beside him on the bed, one hand patting him on the shoulder. "Indeed. But be aware when you and Porthos return to Merry Town. From what he told us, Faveau has a keen interest in you and it sounds as if he'll do whatever it takes to have you."

 

"I think Faveau will be far more focused on his reward than on me," D'Artagnan replied with certainty, because he had seen how important money was to the man. 

 

"I've got stew and bread," Porthos announced, as he reentered the room, carrying a tray filled with bowls and a platter of bread, along with two bottles of wine. 

 

D'Artagnan rose carefully to his feet and headed for the table. "Looks good," he said, taking a bowl before taking a seat. He wasn't really hungry, but he made himself eat for he would need his strength for what was to come.

 

The others joined him and they discussed the plan, which really was simple enough. Porthos and D'Artagnan would return to Merry Town. When the Spaniard showed up they would take him into custody, thereby saving the King. They would also take Faveau into custody and it would be over. Come morning, however, Aramis and Athos would return to the Garrison to update Treville, before returning that night to be ready for the Festival and to be back up for D'Artagnan and Porthos.

 

"Tonight we all need a good night's sleep," Aramis announced, moving to grip D'Artagnan by the arm and lead him over to the bed in the corner. He pulled a root out of the pouch he carried on his belt and handed it to D'Artagnan. "For the pain."

 

"I know." D'Artagnan made a face, but he accepted the root and stuck it in his mouth. He could never remember the latin name for it, but he knew it did help with pain and he needed to be in fighting form in two days, so a good night's sleep was a necessity. He just wished it didn't taste like an old leather boot with a bitter aftertaste.

 

The root, however, did it's duty and it wasn't long before the pain faded and D'Artagnan was asleep.

 

* * *

 

The two days passed quickly enough, with D'Artagnan recovering from his bruising with the vivacity born of youth. Treville was updated and he took care of things on his end, making certain that the King was protected at all times and doubling the guard of Musketeers as the day of the Harvest Festival arrived.

 

Porthos and D'Artagnan prepared themselves as well.

 

"Are you ready for this?" Porthos queried, letting his eyes rove over the boy and wishing there was a way to hide a weapon on his person. A feeling of uncertainty had been haunting Porthos for the past two days, and he had awoken this morning with a cold chill prickling the hairs on the back of his neck and a knot as big as his fist in his stomach. He couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen, and it unnerved because it wasn't his way to let such feelings control him. Porthos went into any and all situations, dangerous or otherwise, with the belief that all would end well. Today, however, he felt weighed down with uncertainty and fear.

 

D'Artagnan, on the other hand, was brimming with enough confidence for them both. Ready and anxious for this to be over. "I'm glad the day has come so we can take down the Spaniard and keep the King safe."

 

Porthos found himself smiling and letting himself ride the wave of D'Artagnan's optimism. "Won't be long now," he stated, clapping the boy on the shoulder. "I bet you'll be happy to get back in uniform."

 

"You have no idea," D'Artagnan said, making a face as he stared down at his unfortunate attire. He felt vulnerable and exposed in a way that made him uncomfortable, although he accepted that this costume was necessary for their plan to succeed. However, he was not looking forward to meeting up with Faveau again. The way the man looked at him made D'Artagnan's skin crawl.

 

Athos and Aramis would remain in the background, on the outskirts of Merry Town, but they joined Porthos and D'Artagnan now, the four men taking a moment to wish each other good fortune.

 

Athos looked at D'Artagnan. "Be ever vigilant," he advised the young Gascon. "I know you can take care of yourself, but you're going to be with two, dangerous, men who will no doubt be armed while you will not be."

 

"I'll be careful, Athos," D'Artagnan promised, feeling warmed by the concern, although he wanted to reassure his friend. "Besides which, Porthos will have my back.:

 

"We'll have each other's backs," Porthos countered, clapping a heavy hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "That said, we need to get going. We don't want to be late." To do so might mean Faveau would commence with the assassination attempt on his own and they did not want to put the King at true risk.

 

Aramis drew them all into a group hug, making them laugh by stating, "Athos is buying the celebration wine tonight, so lets get this over and done with. I'm thirsty."

 

With that said, they parted ways, all of them ready to face whatever was to come.

 

* * *

 

Faveau was waiting for them in the bell tower, at the top level, and he was not alone. A dark-haired man, dressed all in black, hovered in the shadows. 

 

Porthos felt a chill wash over him, knowing it was almost time for him to play his part and wishing he could just shoot the man in the corner and be done with it. Treville, however, wanted them to bring the Spaniard back alive for questioning, so Porthos would do his best. He put a carefree smile on his face as he moved to Faveau, ever aware of D'Artagnan's presence, like a faithful shadow. "Where's my money?" Porthos bellowed.

 

"You'll have it soon enough," Faveau replied, his tone distracted. As was his attention, for his gaze was focused directly upon D'Artagnan. "Hellooo, Etienne, my pretty boy. Time for you to come home with me." He stalked forward, one hand reaching out to grab the boy.

 

"Not until I get paid!" Porthos growled, shoving Faveau back with a hand to his chest, even as he pushed D'Artagnan behind him. It bothered Porthos having to manhandle the boy so, having to treat him like a object or a possession. But they had to keep in character, they were so close to ending this charade and taking the Spaniard down. Which was what Porthos was going to focus on.

 

It seemed the Spaniard had the same idea. He stepped out of the shadows, dark eyes narrowed even as anger darkened the sharp lines of his face. "What is that boy doing here?" he demanded, pointing a gloved finger at D'Artagnan.

 

Faveau was quick to reply. "He was Porthos' pretty pet, but he's mine now. It's personal business between me and my friend and it changes nothing. Porthos is ready to do the job, aren't you?" He stared at Porthos, eyes willing him to agree.

 

"I'm ready," Porthos confirmed, letting Faveau off the hook, because he needed to see this through. "When do I get my money?"

 

"When the job is done," the Spaniard replied, moving to the south window. He smiled as he leaned out into the sun. "The King will be passing by in a few minutes, you should come and get ready. I have the perfect weapon all to the ready."

 

Porthos frowned at that. What weapon? Patting the pistol on his hip he stated, "I have my own, thanks."

 

Turning to face him, the Spaniard scowled. "You will use the weapon of my choice," he snapped, before moving back into the shadowy corner for a moment only to return with a surprise in hand.

 

"A bow and arrow?" Porthos could not hide his surprise, although he managed to swallow down his concern. "I don't...I've never used one before." He couldn't lie about that, not that it would matter in the end. He wasn't going to actually kill the King, after all.

 

"Why did you bring me this oaf?" The Spaniard snarled, turning the full force of his fury on Faveau. "If you can't the do the job, then I will take my money and leave!"

 

Faveau panicked, moving to the Spaniard and pleading with him. "No, don't go! I can do the job, I'm sure of it!"

 

The Spaniard did not look convinced. "Have you ever used a bow and arrow?"

 

"I'm a fast learner," Faveau stated, sweat breaking out on his forhead as it looked like his fortune was going to walk out the door. He turned to Porthos, stalking towards the other man, rage flashing in his eyes. "I trusted you! You said you could do the job!"

 

"You didn't tell me it involved using a bow and arrow!" Porthos countered, letting his frustration show because he could sense that things were spiraling out of control here. He wouldn't be as worried if D'Artagnan hadn't been weaponless and if it weren't important for them to bring the Spaniard back alive. It made sense though, as Treville had pointed out, because the man might have other connections and others who might try to assassinate the King in his place, or in his name.

 

"I can do it," D'artagnan spoke up, but softly, acting his role of Etienne and cowering behind Porthos a bit. 

 

The Spaniard looked intrigued as he stepped over to the boy. "You can use a bow and arrow?"

 

D'Artagnan kept his eyes down, but nodded. 

 

"Show me." The Spaniard held out the bow.

 

Keeping in character as Etienne, D'Artagnan looked to Porthos for permission, but also with the intent of making eye contact so that the other Musketeer would understand what D'Artagnan was doing. That he was evening up the odds in their favor by taking away a weapon that he could use himself.

 

"Show him," Porthos allowed, catching the look in the young Gascon's eyes and hoping D'Artagnan was telling the truth. If so, they could wrap this whole thing up in just a few moments. 

 

Nodding, D'Artagnan took the bow, also accepting an arrow and he notched it into place. Still mindful of the role he was playing, he gave a slight nod to Porthos, signaling for him to be ready, before shyly turning and linining up a shot that land the back of a wooden chair that rested haphazardly on the other side of the room. Only to shift abruptly, his shot know aimed at the Spaniard's thigh. Without hesitation, D'Artagnan fired the arrow and a moment later the Spaniard howled, falling to the floor as he clutched his bleeding leg.

 

Porthos made his move on Faveau at the same time. Not wasting any time but simply shooting him in the leg as well. 

 

Faveau went down hard, shouting curses, but he was still able to pull his dagger. It dropped before he could fling it at Porthos, because the big Musketeer had flung his own dagger first and the sharp blade had cleanly entered Faveau's heart.

 

"Nice shot," D'Artagan stated, grinning at Porthos.

 

"You too." Porthos strode over to the Spaniard, stripping him of his sword and dagger before moving back to D'Artagnan's side. "Didn't know you could shoot a bow and arrow."

 

D'Artagnan shrugged. "There's a lot of things you don't know about me."

 

Porthos grinned. "Fair enough. You can tell me more over our celebratory drinks that Athos is paying for."

 

"Sounds good to me," D'Artagnan allowed, moving over to Faveau and nudging the body with the toe of his boot. The man was dead and D'Artagnan couldn't say that he was sorry. His biggest concern upon coming here this day was having to face Faveau, but things had gone smoothly and D'Artagnan felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The King was safe, the Spaniard was in their custody and Faveau was dead. To D'Artagnan's mind, everything had gone even better than planned. 

 

"I can't wait to get back into uniform," Porthos muttered, as he moved back to the Spaniard who was clutching his leg and moaning. 

 

D'Artagnan chuckled. "I couldn't agree more," he allowed. He had never felt so uncomfortable as he did in his present attire. It made him feel far to exposed and vulnerable in ways he couldn't even explain to himself.

 

Dropping to one knee, Porthos pulled off the sash he was wearing and wrapped it around the Spaniard's thigh. It wouldn't do for him to bleed to death before they could question him. He knew Aramis and Athos would be on their way to meet with them to escort the Spaniard to the Chatelet and Treville's inquisition. Ignoring the other man's cries of pain, Porthos hauled him to his feet, only to yelp in pain as something sharp pierced his forearm, right where the Spaniard was gripping him for support.

 

"What's wrong?" D'Artagnan asked, moving to his friend's side and instantly seeing the cause of pain as a thin rivulet of blood slid down Porthos' arm to drop on the floor. "What happened?" D'Artagnan grabbed the arm and studied what looked like a puncture wound. It was small but it looked rather deep.

 

"Did something...bite me?" Porthos queried, staring at the wound. He felt dizzy all of the sudden and as he swayed he dropped the Spaniard back onto the floor.

 

The man cried out in pain before snarling, "I poisoned you!" As he spoke he held up one hand to reveal a ring with a long, sharp and thin spike laying against his palm. "Let me go and I'll give you the antidote."

 

D'Artagnan reacted without thinking. He grabbed the dagger from Porthos' belt and held it to the Spaniard's throat. "Give me the antidote and I'll let you live!" he snarled back.

 

"In my pouch..." the Spaniard gargled out, for D'Artagnan's free hand was clenching around his throat, making talking difficult.

 

"If my friend dies I will kill you!" D'Artagnan promised, as he cut the pouch free then yanked the neck open. He found the vile and curled his fingers around it before moving to where Porthos had fallen to his knees. Crouching down beside his friend, D'Artagnan reached out to cup his face, not liking what he saw. 

 

Porthos' complexion was ashen, his eyes were glazed and he was sweating. He grunted in pain, doubling over as agony tore through his gut. He felt warm hands moving over him, heard a soft voice calling his name, but they offered no comfort. Pain consumed him and Porthos lashed out, swinging one arm hard, his hand connecting with solid flesh and he heard a cry and a thud and he followed the sound, seeing a body lying at his feet. In his mind he knew this person was the cause of his pain and Porthos lashed out, his fists thudding into flesh until the body rolled away from him. He followed, relentless, using his foot to kick out viciously, again and again.

 

D'Artagnan rolled away from Porthos as best he could, wanting only to curl into himself against wave after wave of pain. He realized his friend did not recognize him but he could not take a deep enough breath to call out to Porthos. Nor could he rise to his feet and put distance between them. So he did what he could to protect himself, feeling himself fading away until a familiar voice called his name.

 

Athos entered the room, eyes going wide as he took in the scene before him. Porthos was beating D'Artagnan and the boy was curled up into himself against the assault. He called out the Gascon's name as he rushed forward, reaching out to grab Porthos and hauling the bigger man back and away from D'Artagnan.

 

Aramis was a step behind Athos and froze for a moment, stunned at what he saw. But the moment quickly faded and he ran forward to help pull Porthos away. He felt his friend trembling, felt sweat-slicked skin, before ducking a heavy back-hand that would have knocked him across the room had it connected. "Forgive me, my friend," Aramis beseeched, even as he side-stepped Porthos yet again, slipping behind him before freeing his sword and using the hilt to clock the bigger man on the back of his head. Porthos went down hard, stunned but not totally unconscious.

 

Athos, meanwhile, fell to his knees beside D'Artagnan, moving his hands over the boy, feeling the knot of fear in his chest loosen to see that the boy was breathing, albeit with difficulty. "What happened?" Athos queried, smoothing dark hair out of D'Artagnan's eyes.

 

"P-poisoned," D'Artagnan whispered, each breath and each word stabbing like agony in his chest. He raised his fist, fighting hard to stop it from shaking, unfurling his fingers to reveal the vial. "P-porthos...m-must drink..." he gasped and fought a cough, curling in on himself again. "H-hurry..."

 

Understanding dawned and Athos took the vial, moving to Porthos and locking eyes with Aramis. "He was poisoned and must drink this," he said, holding up the vial.

 

Aramis nodded. "He's only stunned so be quick." He moved to hold Porthos' head while Athos uncapped the vial. A moment later the clear liquid slid down the big Musketeer's throat and Porthos began thrashing and howling, body seizing even as Aramis and Athos fought to hold him.

 

Then, between one breath and another, Porthos froze like a statue before his body went totally limp and still. 

 

"Porthos!" Athos hissed, one hand slapping the dark cheek in the hope of rousing his friend.

 

"He's breathing," Aramis announced, a moment later, unable to hide his relief. "We need to get him back to the Garrison."

 

Athos nodded, then turned his attention back to D'Artagnan. His heart stuttered in his chest to see the boy lying pale and still. He moved to D'Artagnan's side and pressed one, shaking, hand to the lean chest. He felt the flutter of a heartbeat beneath his palm. 

 

Aramis joined Athos, hands roaming over D'Artagnan, checking for injuries. He winced at what he found. Bruises were already forming on D'Artagnan's skin, staining his chest and ribs and arms. Aramis had no doubt he would find more on the boy's legs. Porthos had done some real damage, and it was going to destroy him when he learned what he had done. "We need to get them both back. We'll need a wagon." 

 

"I'll take care of it," Athos replied, rising to his feet. He knew that his friends were in good hands with Aramis tending to them. He left the bell tower and hadn't gone far when he spotted Treville. The Captain was accompanied by a half dozen Musketeers. 

 

"Do you have the Spaniard?" Treville queried, as he reached Athos.

 

At the mention of the Spaniard, Athos felt rage twist in his gut. Two of his dear friends, his brother, lay sick and injured because of that man. "We have him, but he will not live long," Athos stated, and he was not talking about the Spaniard's injury. Before Treville could ask what he meant, Athos told him everything he knew, and made his request for a wagon and the supplies Aramis would need to tend to their friends.

 

Treville barked out orders and his men dispersed to obey, he then turned to Athos, "How are Porthos and D'Artagnan? I sense you left a few details out.

 

With the other Musketeers in earshot, Athos had said only that Porthos had been poisoned and D'Artagnan had been beaten, but now he let Treville know the truth. "Whatever the poison was, it made Porthos crazed. He's the one who hurt D'Artagnan."

 

"I see." Treville had stiffened at Athos' confession, understanding the consequences all too well. "What does Aramis say? Will they be all right?"

 

"They're alive, that's all I know for sure," Athos stated, his tone curt for he was still consumed with anger. "If you would escort the other's back home, I would like a few moments with the Spaniard. I will find out all that he knows, but I can't guarantee what condition he will be in when we return."

 

Treville nodded. "Do what you need to do and report to me the moment you get back."

 

Athos nodded, then whispered, "Thank you," for he was grateful that Treville would allow him this. He would learn everything he could about why the Spaniard wanted King Louis dead and if there were any reason to expect another attempt in the future, but beyond that he would be free to punish the man for what he had done to his friends. "Take care of D'Artagnan and Porthos," Athos beseeched, then he turned on his heel and strode back inside the Bell Tower. 

 

The Spaniard was where they'd left him, moaning on the floor. Athos wasted no time moving to his side and kneeling beside him. His eyes were as cold as the smile on his face as he stated, "You will answer every question I ask you and if I believe you, you will live to die another day. Lie to me and you die now and painfully. But know this, if either of my friends die, you will beg me for death before I am done with you."

 

Fear glazed the Spaniard's eyes as he whispered, "What do you want to know?"

 

* * *

 

When Athos returned to the Garrison, he checked in with Treville letting him know that the Spaniard was safely locked up in the Chatelet and that he swore that his attempt to assassinate King Louis was not connected to his country or to any of his country men. 

 

Treville nodded. "Did you get his name?"

 

"Geraldo Montoya," Athos replied. "I'll give you a written report with everything he told me...later." His thoughts were elsewhere for now. 

 

"Good enough," Treville allowed. "Aramis is with Porthos and D'Artagnan. I've given them the south room."

 

Athos was not surprised. The south room was a private area, near the infirmary, where Porthos and D'Artagnan would have the peace and quiet they would need to recover. "How are they?"

 

With a shrug of his shoulders, Treville replied, "There's been no change. But they're alive and Aramis will see them through this."

 

"He will," Athos confirmed, before giving a nod and exiting the office. He made his way to the South room and knocked softly before entering. There was a table near the door, laden with a pitcher and basin, bandages and various other medicinal supplies. Athos hooked his hat on the corner of one chair and moved to join Aramis, who was sitting next to D'Artagnan's bed. Another bed was against the far wall, and Porthos lay there looking ashen and still. "How are they?" he queried, repeating the question he'd just asked Treville.

 

"Holding their own," Aramis replied, looking weary. "Porthos threw up once on the way back here and again after we got him settled. He's been deeply out of it since."

 

Athos moved to check on Porthos for a moment, pressing a hand against the broad chest, just to feel his big friend breathe. Each inhale and exhale offered Athos comfort. But he was startled at the sound of a soft moan and he swiftly moved back to Aramis' side, eyes wide with worry as he watched him attempt to soothe D'Artagnan. The boy's eyes were closed but his body was taut and trembling. He was obviously in pain.

 

Aramis managed to settle D'Artagnan, one hand smoothing the dark hair as he whispered soft words of comfort. But he looked worried as he turned to Athos. "I'm afraid Porthos did quite the number on our youngest."

 

"Tell me," Athos demanded, steeling himself to hear the worst. 

 

"D'Artagnan threw up twice on the way here, he has a definite concussion," Aramis began. He then pulled back the blanket that covered D'Artagnan, revealing the boy's bare chest, bound with bandages and stained with dark bruising. "He has a broken rib, several bruised and deep bruising on his chest, abdomen, back, shoulders, arms and thighs. Porthos punched him and kicked him and there was a lot of force behind it. D'Artagnan is going to be very sore and it will be difficult for him for a few weeks. That he's young and strong and fit will help. The worst damage is the broken rib and the concussion, but there's just so much damage overall."

 

Athos felt sick and reached out to cover D'Artagnan again, hiding the bruising. "Porthos will be devastated when he learns what he has done," he whispered. "How is he, physically?"

 

Aramis managed a shaky smile. "Porthos is strong, hearty and hale and that helped him. That and the antidote that D'Artagnan saved for him. He's quite the wonder, our Gascon boy."

 

"That he is," Athos allowed. "But they are both going to suffer when they awake." He wished there was something he could do to spare his friends the pain both physically and emotionally. 

 

"It will be difficult," Aramis replied. "But they will not be alone. We will help them through it."

 

Athos nodded, then he moved to sit in the chair next to Porthos' bed, joining Aramis to keep watch over their friends.

 

* * *

 

A full day passed before Porthos woke up. He had need of the chamber pot followed by a glass of wine, for his throat was parched and his head ached. He felt a bit hung over, only he didn't remember going out drinking. In face, the last thing he remembered was him and D'Artagnan facing down the Spaniard in the bell tower.

 

Heaving himself upright, Porthos squinted in the dim light of the room he was in, not recognizing his surroundings. But he did recognize the man that suddenly appeared before him. "Aramis."

 

"Welcome back, my friend," Aramis countered, a smile on his face. "Have some water." He offered a cup and watched as Porthos drained it. "How do you feel?"

 

"A bit dizzy and confused, and I need a moment to answer nature's call," Porthos confessed. He let Aramis help him stand, grateful for the support when he swayed on his feet for a moment. Once he felt steady he headed for the pot in the corner, only to stop dead when he spotted D'Artagnan in the bed across the room. "What happened to him?" Porthos thought back to the events in the bell tower and he didn't remember D'Artagnan getting hurt. He remembered D'Artagnan shooting the Spaniard in the leg with an arrow and himself taking Faveau out. 

 

"Take care of your needs first," Aramis insisted, guiding Porthos to the corner. "I'll explain everything while we eat. You need to build your strength back up."

 

Tearing his eyes off of D'Artagnan's still form, Porthos made quick work of using the chamber pot, then he used the basin of water on the table to wash his hands and face, clearing his head and mind a bit. He ignored the baguette that Aramis held out to him, moving over to D'Artagnan's side and letting his eyes roam over the still form. He was horrified at the bruises that marred the sweet face and that he could see mottling the smooth skin of the boy's shoulders and chest where the blanket didn't cover him. "What happened to him?"

 

Aramis sighed and took Porthos by the arm, guiding him over to sit in a chair at the table. "What do you remember of the events in the bell tower?"

 

"D'Artagnan shot the Spaniard with his own arrow and I had to kill Faveau," Porthos replied. 

 

"What else?" Aramis prompted, unwillingly.

 

Porthos thought for a moment, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. "I...I remember a sharp pain in my leg. Wait! The Spaniard stabbed me with a needle in his ring. Poisoned me!" He looked at Aramis for confirmation.

 

Aramis nodded. "Yes, that's what happened. You were in incredible pain and D'Artagnan got the Spaniard to give him the cure. We showed up soon after."

 

"No..." Porthos shook his head as the memories flashed in his head. He remembered the pain but he remembered something else as well. "I was angry and I lashed out. I wanted to stop the pain. I had to stop the pain..." He gasped as he realized the terrible truth. Jumping to his feet, Porthos moved to the bed and stared down at D'Artagnan, eyes soaking in the bruising and bandages. "No...no...no! Tell me I did not do this to him?" He turned to Aramis, begging to be told that something else had befallen their youngest.

 

"I'm sorry," Aramis whispered. "You didn't know what you were doing, Porthos. The poison was affecting you. D'Artagnan doesn't blame you."

 

It took everything in Porthos not to howl in agony at what he had done. He felt Aramis grip his arm and he shoved him off. "I blame myself!" he snarled. "I did this to him! How bad is it? Tell me!" He went from rage to sorrow in the blink of an eye and he felt dizzy as he fell to his knees beside D'Artagnan's bed. "Tell me he's going to be allright."

 

Aramis knelt down beside Porthos, one hand gripping his shoulder in comfort and support. "D'Artagnan will be sore, but he will be all right. I promise."

 

"He's so...still," Porthos whispered, lifting one hand to brush dark hair off the pale forehead. 

 

"He's nearly come around a few times and he was hurting so I've been dosing him to keep him out," Aramis replied. "He'll heal better with sleep. But D'Artagnan is young and strong, my friend. I promise you he is going to be fine."

 

Porthos had to believe it to be true, but that did not alleve his guilt. Stumbling to his feet, he headed for the door. He needed to get away, to think, to bring his heart and mind and soul back into alignment. He felt shattered and the pieces were drifting away from him.

 

Aramis moved to follow him, only to freeze when he heard D'Artagnan moan. He moved to the young man's side and smoothed a hand through the dark hair trying to sooth him back to sleep. 

 

But D'Artagnan's eyes fluttered open and he made a motion as if to rise.

 

"You must be still," Aramis said, pressing him down as gently as he could. "You need to rest."

 

"P-porthos," D'Artagnan whispered. 

 

Aramis sighed but smiled. He wasn't surprised that D'Artagnan was asking after the big man. D'Artagnan worried after them all. "Porthos is fine, lad. Just fine. Now you sleep." It took a few minutes but he succeeded in easing D'Artagnan back into slumber.

 

Just as Athos entered the room. "Where's Porthos?" he demanded.

 

"I don't know," Aramis replied, moving to slump into the nearest chair. "He woke up, we talked about what happened and when he realized what he had done...he ran off. I went to follow but D'Artagnan woke up. Boy has the worst timing."

 

"I'll find him," Athos stated, but he took a moment to check on D'Artagnan first. "Take care of him," he beseeched, even though he knew Aramis would. Without expecting a reply, Athos turned on his heel and headed out. He prayed he would find Porthos before his friend did something they would all regret.

 

* * *

 

Porthos knew that someone would come looking for him, so he went to a place his friends wouldn't know to look. It was a place that felt like home to him, when home had been the Court of Miracles. It was a small set of rooms, tucked into a corner of an abandoned millhouse, in the south end of the city just shy of reaching the outer limits. He had a table, two chairs, a bed and bedding and a few articles of clothing that he kept there. More than enough to serve his needs. On his way he acquired two bottles of wine and he was half way through the first when his body betrayed him. He was still weak and exhausted and he drifted off to sleep, only to dream about D'Artagnan. Nightmares where the memory of what he'd done to the boy were amplified by his sorrow and his guilt.

 

Nightmares where D'Artagnan could not, and would not, forgive him.

 

* * *

 

D'Artagnan came awake slowly, pain rippling throughout his body and dragging him into consciousness. At the same time he felt heavy and sluggish, so he was grateful when familiar hands shifted him upright and a cup of cool water touched his lips.

 

"Small sips or you'll be sick," Aramis cautioned.

 

It was hard to obey, but D'Artagnan did as he was bid and felt the better for it. After a time he finally felt able to work his voice and he whispered, "I'm good."

 

Aramis chuckled as he shifted D'Artagnan back against the pile of pillows he tucked up behind him. "You're better," he allowed. "How is the pain?":

 

"There." D'Artagnan saw no reason to lie about it, he certainly couldn't stop a moan from escaping as he tested his various limbs and each and every inch of him seemed to ache. "How bad?"

 

"Could have been worse," Aramis stated. "You'll heal if you behave. You're ribs and concussion are the most serious. Can you open your eyes for me and tell me if you feel dizzy."

 

It was only then that D'Artagnan realized his eyes were still closed. He blinked a few times before focusing on his friend. The room was dimly lit so Aramis' face was a bit in shadow, but he saw him clearly. "Not dizzy," D'Artagnan replied. He took a careful breath and felt the pull against his ribs, but it was doable. "Where's Porthos?" He had expected to see both the big guy and Athos in the room, and found himself disappointed that they weren't. Then a horrible thought occurred. "He's...he's not...?"

 

Aramis was quick to reassure him. "Porthos is fine. Mostly. He...he knows what happened and he didn't take it well. He's feeling the heavy burden of guilt."

 

"That's not his burden to bear," D'Artagnan protested, feeling both frustrated and worried. "I must talk to him."

 

"Athos has gone to find him," Aramis replied. 

 

As if conjured by the sound of his name, the man in question appeared in the doorway. "I can't find him anywhere," he stated, as he crossed the room to D'Artagnan's side. "How are you feeling? It's good to see you awake."

 

D'Artagnan frowned at that. "How long have I been out of it?"

 

"Almost three days," Aramis confessed, not looking the least bit guilty. "You needed to sleep to heal. And you'll need much more rest, so don't be getting any ideas." He rose to his feet and headed for the door. "I'm going to get you some broth. You need nourishment."

 

"I need the chamber pot," D'Artagnan countered, blushing a bit. "And to wash up."

 

Athos waved Aramis off. "I'll help him with both, get the food."

 

D'Artagnan made a face. "Broth isn't food really," he grumbled, even though he didn't really feel hungry. He was too worried about Porthos to even think about food. "How long has he been gone?" D'Artagnan asked, even as he allowed Athos to ease him from the bed and over to the chamber pot. They were soldiers and there was no shame in needing each other's help, so D'Artagnan accepted with good grace, still asking questions as he took care of his needs. "Do you think he's all right?"

 

"He's Porthos," Athos countered, as if that was enough said.

 

"I need to talk to him," D'Artagnan insisted, even as he let Athos guide him back to bed. He didn't fuss when his friend grabbed a basin of water and two cloths, one to wash him and the other to dry him. D'Artagnan knew his own limits and it took all his strength just to remain upright while Athos worked over him. He was grateful to lay back again, feeling cleaner, and yet more exhausted than before. 

 

Athos drew the covers over D'Artagnan then sighed. "He'll be back when he's ready."

 

D'Artagnan could see how worried Athos was and it scared him. "You're going to go look for him again?"

 

"I have an errand to run for Treville first," Athos replied. "But, yes. I'll look for him again. Try not to worry, just concentrate on getting better, D'Artagnan."

 

"Of course." D'Artagnan gave in without a fight because he did not want to add to Athos' distress. "Safe journey, Athos."

 

With a nod of his head Athos was gone, leaving D'Artagnan alone with his own fears. But not for long, since exhaustion quickly dragged him back into her dark embrace.

 

* * *

 

The sound of whispered voices pulled D'Artagnan back to consciousness again. He blinked hard then opened his eyes to find Athos and Aramis across the room and deep in conversation. He took a few breaths then managed to push himself somewhat upright.

 

Aramis noticed and broke off the conversation to rush over to him, tutting at him even as he helped D'Artagnan to sit up against the ever present mound of pillows. "You need to be careful," D'Artagnan."

 

"I'm fine," D'Artagnan replied, although he was grateful for the helping hand. "What are you two whispering about?" He asked outright, for he sensed that it involved him in some way.

 

"Treville is sending us on mission," Athos replied, moving to join them. "We won't be gone long, but it's King's business."

 

D'Artagnan understood. "Then go. I can take care of myself."

 

Aramis snorted. "You're quite the funny fellow, you know that? Don't even get any ideas in that head of yours, D'Artagnan. Serge will be watching over you while we're gone, as will Treville. You're to do nothing more than eat and rest while we're gone."

 

"I take it you haven't found Porthos yet?" D'Artagnan countered, side-stepping Aramis' orders. 

 

"He'll be found when he's ready," Athos calmly replied, although he still looked anxious. 

 

D'Artagnan knew better than to argue, so he simply nodded. "Go and be safe," he offered. "I promise to be good." He wince a little at the lie, but what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

 

Aramis patted his shoulder. "We'll back before nightfall," he stated, before turning to gather up his gear.

 

"Rest, D'Artagnan," Athos ordered, then he turned and followed Aramis out the door.

 

D'Artagnan's first instinct was to get up the moment they were gone, but he waited for a fair bit to make certain they wouldn't return to check on him. When it seemed obvious no one was coming any time soon, D'Artagnan pushed back the blankets and slowly and painfully got to his feet. 

 

He made use of the chamber pot again, washed up a bit and managed to dress, although by the time he was finished he felt like crawling back into bed. But he made himself walk out the door. Porthos was out there somewhere, hiding away out of a sense of guilt, and D'Artagnan was determined to find him. And he had a feeling he knew just where to look.

 

* * *

 

Porthos had finished both bottles of wine after waking up to darkness. He had no idea how much time had passed, nor did he care. He didn't even have the energy to get up and get himself another bottle or two, it was much easier to simply lie there and wallow in both guilt and sorrow. He was so wrapped up in his misery that he didn't hear footsteps softly approaching and he had no clue someone was there until a soft voice whispered his name.

 

"Porthos?"

 

"D'Artagnan?" He knew the voice and he rolled to his side and sat up, blinking in the dim light of a single candle that he'd lit to chase away the heavy darkness.

 

Another candle flared to life and suddenly D'Artagnan was there, standing before him. He smiled, but it looked uncertain.

 

Porthos stumbled to his feet and lurched forward. "How...how did you find me?"

 

"You told me about this place a few months ago," D'Artagnan replied. "Remember when we had to escort the Duke of Covington's wife and daughter back to their summer home? On the way back to the Garrison we stopped at a tavern and you got a bit drunk after winning a big pot at cards and you told me how you liked to come here sometimes. How no one else knew about it. Then you promptly fell asleep right after making me promise not to tell anyone."

 

"I sorta remember that," Porthos allowed. He stared at the boy and could see he was swaying on his feet. "How did you make it here? Why did they let you come? You're about to fall over." Porthos knew he was babbling, but he couldn't help himself. He was worried and surprised and so very very confused. 

 

D'Artagnan huffed a sigh then confessed, "I am a bit done in, it was a long walk. And...they didn't let me come, they don't know I'm here. Treville sent them on a mission. They're very worried about you, as I am."

 

Porthos shook his head. "You shouldn't have come. You should stay away from me."

 

"You would never hurt me, Porthos!" D'Artagnan countered, taking a step closer only to stumble and cry out as the movement jarred his injuries.

 

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos didn't think, he simply moved to support the boy, guiding him over to the bed and making him sit back against the pillows. "What can I do to help?"

 

It took a moment for D'Artagnan to get his breath back once the pain had eased, but a smile curved his lips as he replied, "You can talk to me. Why did you hide from us? From me?"

 

Porthos turned away, pacing from corner to corner in the small space. "I hurt you. I beat you...badly. I couldn't....how could I do that to you? How could you ever forgive me for that when I can't forgive myself?"

 

"There's nothing to forgive," D'Artagnan insisted. "Porthos...you were poisoned and the poison messed with your head. You didn't know who I was. I don't blame you and you need to stop blaming yourself!" 

 

"It's not just that," Porthos countered, feeling like he might as well confess everything. "With Faveau I treated you badly and I left you alone with him. He hurt you and almost violated you. Then I go and beat you nearly to death!"

 

D'Artagnan moved to get off the bed, biting back a cry of pain as darkness swirled around him making him sway.

 

Porthos was there, supporting him against his strong bulk, one big hand rubbing gently down his spine, careful of the bruising he knew lay beneath the loose shirt and vest D'Artagnan wore. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "So very very sorry."

 

"Not your fault," D'Artagnan repeated, once he could breath again. He felt Porthos try to rise and he gripped his hand. "Listen to me, my friend, and listen good. There is nothing to forgive." 

 

"I hurt you!" Porthos protested.

 

D'Artagnan smacked him on the back of the head with as much strength as he could muster, and he was pleased when the bigger man yelped in response. "There's nothing to forgive," D'Artagnan said firmly, hoping this time the message would get through the thick skull. 

 

Porthos rubbed the back of his head with his free hand, for the whelp had a powerful arm even when he wasn't at full strength. He wanted to believe that all was forgiven, but he couldn't let go of the memory of the things he had said nor Faveau's body pinning D'Artagnan to the bed. He didn't understand how the boy could just let it all go. So Porthos would remind him. "I treated you badly with Faveau and you were nearly defiled. And, poisoned or not, I beat you nearly to death."

 

"Not to death," D'Artagnan countered, sounding annoyed at having to repeat himself. "And I really wish the lot of you would remember that I'm no maiden that needs to be taken care of. We both played a part, doing what we needed to do, in the name of saving the King. We are Musketeers and we are strong, we heal. We move on. So the part I need you to play now is that of my friend. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Porthos allowed, knowing that D'Artagnan would accept nothing less. The boy could out stubborn Athos when he put his mind to it. Besides which, Porthos wanted to move on and get past this. Knowing that D'Artagnan truly held no ill will against him was the first step. Each step would be easier to take. "I will always be your friend, D'Artagnan, and more. I'm your brother."

 

D'Artagnan was relieved to hear that, but he did not fuss about it, he simply accepted it for what it was. The simple truth. "Good. Now that's settled, I'm afraid I'll need to impose on our friendship and ask for your help getting back to the Garrison. I'm feeling a bit done in." In truth, he knew he wouldn't be able to get up at all without help. 

 

Porthos chuckled, knowing that admission was not easy for D'Artagnan to make. "We'll go back later," he allowed. "For now you're going to rest here. We both will. So shove over, whelp and give me some room." Porthos spoke gruffly, but his touch was gentle as he helped the boy stretch out before laying in close beside him and covering them both with the blankets. Porthos knew they needed to be close and that it would help them heal as much as resting would. "Close your eyes, D'Artagnan," Porthos ordered. "I'll watch over you."

 

"I know you will," D'Artagnan whispered, as his eyes drifted closed.

 

"Sweet dreams, my friend," Porthos replied, feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. He closed his own eyes and felt himself drifting off into gentle dreams of his own. 

 

D'Artagnan felt Porthos relax against his back and relief washed over him. All felt right in his world again. Although, once they returned to the Garrison they would both face the wrath of Aramis, Athos and Treville combined, but they would face it together and D'Artagnan knew they would be forgiven. 

 

Always.

 

THE END


End file.
